


Ding

by yeaka



Category: Travelers (TV)
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 16:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21341026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Ray calls.
Relationships: Ray Green/Philip Pearson | Traveler 3326
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Ding

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Travelers or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’d probably fall asleep faster if he closed his eyes. They’re kind of sore anyway. But Philip’s still staring at the back wall, slowly tracing the long crack snaking down from the ceiling. There are dark spots that might be mold. The warehouse really is depressing. But it’s also home.

His phone buzzes, and at first, he leaves it. His com’s on. If one of the team needs to talk to him, they can just do that. But it rings again, this time the text tone, and he rolls over. It’s not like he’s actually falling asleep anyway. Staying up might even be more restful. He gets almost as many nightmares in this new body as he did in the old one.

He fumbles his phone off the nightstand and down onto his pillow. The screen’s too bright, but he blinks against it, opening the message. 

It’s just Ray. _Got any beds for tomorrow?_

Philip exhales, maybe a little disappointed. Maybe he thought it was actually going to be something nice, which was stupid, because the only real friends he has are his team members, who all have their own lives. He figures Ray just mistyped and returns, _No, stop asking me for bets._

The little bubbles form, telling him that Ray’s typing. He gets back, _What should I ask u?_

Ray’s too be old to be replacing whole words with letters. Or maybe Philip doesn’t know how to be young properly. Philip’s tempted to just put the phone back, roll over, and resume his examination of his ugly ‘bedroom.’ Maybe he’s too starved for human contact, because he actually retorts: _You could just ask how I’m doing._

A second later, Ray shoots back, _How you doing?_

Philip snorts. He answers, _Tired._

_You in bed?_

At least it’s the full word this time. _Yeah._

_Whatr you wearing_

Philip blinks. He doesn’t understand. He stares at the message for a few seconds before typing in, _Sweat pants, blue t-shirt, socks. Why?_

_Not what I meant, kid._

Philip glances at the last question. It’s a pretty simple statement, even with the errors. He asks, _What did you mean?_

_You could’ve just said no._

_No to what?_

_Progressing this_

Philip’s so lost. _Progressing what to what?_

_Me hitting on you_

Philip reads the sentence three times over before it fully sinks in. It’s a colloquial twenty-first expression he’s heard of in passing. He knows it doesn’t mean violence. It means something that he didn’t think could apply to him and Ray. Dazed, Philip scrolls up, going through the short conversation to try and see where it went wrong. But he still doesn’t understand. After a moment’s hesitation, he double-checks, _You were hitting on me?_

_You said u were in bed, where was my brain supposed to go?_

Technically, Ray asked. Philip only said ‘yeah.’ Having reached his confusion limit, he admits: _This is a weird conversation for text._

_This is a perfect conversation for late night texts. What’s the matter, u never sext before?_

While Philip’s trying to figure out if Ray just mistyped again, another comes through: _You into it or not?_

There’s a long stretch where Philip just floats in a numb, dizzy disconnect between new social norms, his hormones, and the man he used to be. It’s too late in the evening to be thinking about this—his drug-addled brain is already checking out. It’s a scenario he has no preparation for. He never even considered it. He figured he’d just die alone in an alien century, because Protocol Five exists, and no one would ever want Philip Pearson. 

Apparently, Ray does. And Philip doesn’t know what to do with that. 

Eventually, his fingers move on their own, and for whatever reason, he types out: _What’re YOU wearing?_

_Just these tiny boxers. ;) Enjoy picturing that._

It takes Philip half a second to decode the semi-colon and parenthesis. It looks weirdly cute and nothing he would’ve attributed to Ray. But he can picture the actual Ray, rugged and stubbly, winking at him over a slick smirk. He can also picture Ray stripping down, out of the long overcoat, the wrinkled button-up beneath, the tie, the trousers—Philip shuts his eyes, and suddenly, his lawyer’s behind his eyelids, reclining back in bed with the blankets just barely covering his lap. He doesn’t know if Ray would be toned or flabby—his physique could go either way. Philip pictures it right in between. Something stirs in Philip’s lower body.

His phone vibrates in his hand. A picture’s come through: a man’s torso flexing in poor lighting. It’s more muscular than he thought. Grey boxers are pushed low down jutting hips, revealing a trail of dark hair.

Ray prompts, _Now you send me one._

Philip won’t. But he does say, _Thanks._

A long pause, and he breaks, adding a less than symbol and a three. He can at least figure out how to be moderately twenty-first-y. 

But that’s already more than he can take in one night. He turns the phone off before any more trouble can come through, sets it back on the nightstand, and rolls over to sleep.


End file.
